the smell of my desperation has become a stench

It’s going so well!

I promise you this is not going to become a running blog, although with as much as I have been through physically in the last couple of weeks I’d have content for that site through Q4. Quick, Jon! Let’s get someone to sponsor my hamstrings. That won’t piss anyone off!

(JESUS CHRIST THE EXCLAMATION POINTS.)

Turns out everyone else on our team has worked their way up to 15 miles on the weekend. I was supposed to run 12 miles on Sunday, but last week while sprinting during some interval training I came face to face with a groin injury. (Jon, get your mind out of the trash right now, SON.)

It’s nothing so serious as to take me out of the game, but I’ve had to slow it up a bit, ice like crazy, and pop ibuprofen like raw cashews. See, I’m still eating a paleo diet. I don’t pop candy. Not only did my attitude around food have to change, but so did my metaphors and similes.

Some of my friends warned me about the bipolar relationship I would have with running, and in the past I have totally experienced the lows. I tried running in 2001 for a few months, and even if we don’t count the fractured foot she was still a jealous lover who would drive over to my house and piss on my lawn if I didn’t return a phone call.

(That was the first and only lesbian affair I had.)

During the 10-mile run a little over a week ago I finally experienced the manic, the lover so intoxicating that it makes sense to sneak off to Vegas, withdraw all our savings and hit a Roulette wheel. At mile eight I was like, MILE EIGHT? I have run EIGHT MILES? Life is a beautiful flower.

Two days later when I ran five miles I could tell that running had not taken its medication. In fact, I run with a GPS app that records my pace and speed and mileage, and when that run was over and it asked me how it went I wrote, “BALLS.”

I never know how a run is going to feel, which is exhilarating at times. At times. Usually, it gives me indigestion, and I get so nervous that I feel like puking. So basically, running is that dream where you signed up for a German class but forgot to drop it, and when it comes around to the final exam you suddenly remember you have to show up but can’t find any clothes. WHEEE!

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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